


turn the wheel and the future changes

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other, and i like these bits, basically follows the idea that euros actually shot john and everything after is a coma-dream, but the more i try to add to it, s4 fix it, so here they are anyway, the less i actually produce, this was supposed to be a fully-fledged fic, very minor tweaks in TLD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: bits and pieces of a s4 fix-it i doubt i'll ever finish, so here they are for your reading pleasure*title is from sense8 but I LIKE IT OKAY





	1. Sherlock v. Euros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically immediately after TLD, assuming Euros actually shot John
> 
> I hadn't come up with a reason yet that Sherlock was on his way (oops)

John is calling him. John is calling him? 

He answers immediately, letting the phone clatter on the dashboard. “John, where are you? Are you alright?”

_“Hello, Sherlock. It’s been a long time, little brother. John’s a little…indisposed at the moment.”_

No. Not John. “Euros. Don’t—”

_“Oh, it’s already done, spare me your empty threats.”_

“What have you done?” he rasps, heart pounding in his chest. “Euros?”

_“Oh, Sherlock, don’t be so boring.”_

He presses the gas pedal harder. “I’m on my way.”

_“I know, Sherlock. I’m waiting.”_

“What is this, Euros? What are you doing?”

 _“John told you, right? About his little…indiscretion. Texting, it was only texting. He broke it off before anything else happened.”_ She sighs, and it crackles through the phone. _“I was prepared to go farther. But his temporary lapse in judgment did allow me to plant some fun ideas in that tiny brain of his. So soft and pliable. A little lippy and a wig was all it took to catch his attention. So easy.”_

Sherlock grits his teeth, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. 

_“I needed John to push you away, and guilt over Mary’s death was the perfect way to do it.”_

He knew what came next. As much as he didn’t want to hear it, he had to. He had to know. 

_“Impressive, Mary was. I never met her, myself, but James told me plenty about her. Of course, that was while she was still employed by him. By us?”_ A pause. _“Semantics.”_

He knew that. Of course he knew that. He’d always known, or at the very least suspected it. Since Magnussen’s office. Didn’t mean hearing it felt any better. 

He didn’t look forward to catching John up on that.

 _“Then I heard she’d gone rogue and fell in love with her target. She was meant to keep an eye on John, in case you decided to come out of the dark.”_ Sherlock swallows. _“We knew you were alive, of course,”_ —of course— _“but as long as you were forced to play dead and leave John, that’s all we needed, while I let you clean up Jim’s mess.”_

“You didn’t need his web anymore, because you had your own.”

She hums an affirmative, the sound of it grates at his occipital lobe.

_“I had planned, of course, in case Mary didn’t take the bullet for you, but I knew she would. Her sentiment for John and, of course, John’s sentiment for you made sure of that. I think she was actually starting to like you.”_

Euros pauses, wanting that to stick. He tries not to let it, and fails. _“But, again, I had to tie up that loose end.”_

She sighs, _“Oh, and he took the bait so beautifully. Pushing you away, blaming you for Mary’s death, even going so far as to actually hurt you! That was a pleasant surprise. Must have had more pent up than I first thought. And you let him! That much was all you, despite our little night on the town. I mostly left you alone. Mostly. Wanted to make sure you were as far gone as I anticipated, and plant the little seed of doubt about our meeting."_

“So did Culverton give you the note himself or was that a gift from our mutual friend?”

 _“That was Jim,”_ she says, and he can hear her smiling around it. He can’t even see it and hates it. He hates her. _“I wanted to confirm all the rumors our poor, late James had relayed to me, about you finding a new pet. You quite like this one, don’t you? You liked the last one, too. But I would go as far to say that you love John, no? Oh, don’t worry, he can’t hear me now. It’s okay, you can tell me, Sherlock. I can tell how affected you are by his…condition. I apologize, but it was absolutely necessary. I couldn’t have him talking any nonsense to you when we reunited."_

He charges into the house, remembers vaguely when he came here before. He knows where he’s going, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. 

He walks into the office and finds John’s body on the floor. 

“John?!” Oh, god. He’s been shot. Sherlock runs to him. “John. John, can you hear me?” John doesn’t respond, body limp on the floor. He’s not dead, he’s still breathing, he’s still bleeding, oh god. “John!”

“Boring!” his sister peals. “Well, here we are. Should we get going then?” She levels the gun back at Sherlock. “I assume emergency services have already been called, why don’t we get out of their way, brother mine? Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he bites. She rolls her eyes, both now blue again, contacts discarded on the table next to her. She’s also made quick work of her hair, having shaken out her mahogany curls back over her shoulders.

“Don’t make that face,” she bemoans, disgusted. “John made a face when he saw me, I told him I’d put a hole in it. I’m still tempted to do so,” she teases, her eyes lighting up at the prospect.

Sherlock inhales, composing himself as best as possible, gives John’s hand one last squeeze, and stands. “And where will we be going, dear sister?”

“No spoilers, Sherlock!” She plays affronted, but she almost giggles. “You know better.”

“Ah. Well, if I have no choice.”

Her face falls. “You don’t,” she bites back, and then returns to smiling. “Come along!”

When Sherlock doesn’t move first, she twitches the gun at him. He takes the hint.

“How fitting it all is,” she says behind him. “Mary took a bullet in the same place she put one in you, but she wasn’t so lucky.” She follows Sherlock toward the front door, closer now. “And, now, I’ve put one in your precious John. How do you think he’ll fare?” She presses the muzzle of the gun into the back of his neck, and whispers, “Best two out of three?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the first bit i wrote, where this idea started
> 
> i had too much fun writing euros probably
> 
> my favorite bits are "semantics" and "best two out of three"


	2. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rewritten ending of TFP assuming coma-dream

John experiences many things in the aftermath of Euros, Sherrinford, and Musgrave. The rebuilding of Baker Street, returning it to its former glory. He and Sherlock begin to take cases again. After a long period of tension and a surprisingly emotional apology, Molly returns to being their friend, and resumes her duties as “best godmother ever.” 

In all honesty, it almost doesn’t feel real. But John supposes that’s the luster of near-death, near-loss, and post-trauma life. Everything goes back to normal, back to good.

Maybe too good? This does not occur to John until he gets a package in the mail: a DVD labelled “MISS YOU”. He immediately calls Sherlock, feeling the cold weight of his wedding band as he dials and brings the phone to his ear. 

\---

_P.S. I know you two._  
And if I'm gone,   
I know what you can become,   
because I know who you really are.   
A junkie who solves crimes to get high,   
and the doctor who never came home from the war. 

_When all else fails,_  
there are two men sitting,   
arguing in a scruffy flat,   
like they've always been there,   
and they always will.   
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

Mary’s voice ebbs, and John feels something in his perspective shift. Everything suddenly feels…opaque. Shimmering. Like a curtain on a window not actually meant to keep out the light. 

He feels Sherlock grab his hand, and when he turns to him he’s not there. But John can still feel his hand, warmly holding his own. 

His brain tries to fill in the empty space but the world around him vibrates, not liking his attempt to change something. And all at once John realizes— _this isn’t real._ None of this is real. His memories of the last few days become hazy, garbled. Like radio static. 

He tries to think back to the last time he felt solid. And that’s when the pain comes. He knows this pain, has felt it before. _“Some…woman…shot me,”_ he remembers. _“Sherlock…a sister?…oh God.”_

He still feels the warmth of another hand in his. He knows now that it’s reality seeping in. As it does, the pain gets worse. He focuses on it, tries to latch onto it, let it pull him out of the fog. 

Bring him back to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i edited mary's monologue because reasons
> 
> i still don't know how i feel about s4, honestly


	3. After Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically my edited version of TFP through way too much expositional dialogue
> 
> sorry not sorry?

John has his hand on the bed, palm open to Sherlock.

“What really happened, Sherlock? With your sister?”

Sherlock looks at him for a moment before speaking. “She was brilliant, just like Mycroft and I. More so, even. She felt things more deeply than any of us could ever know. And I think that broke her.”

“Sentiment,”John whispers. His fingers curl slightly, inviting, welcoming him. Sherlock nods. He folds his hand into John’s.

“Indeed. Our parents made sure she had the best treatment in England, but it wasn’t enough. Every doctor wanted to put her on one medication or another, all of them very intense for adults, let alone an adolescent girl.”

“I can imagine.”

“When she took them they made her sick, or they impaired her mind. When she didn’t, she had major manic and depressive episodes. She couldn’t be sent to school, so Mother attempted home-schooling. But still Euros isolated herself, even from us. I once didn’t see her for a week, because she only left her room to get food, and she only did so when we were either asleep or out. The only signs of life were from her violin.”

“She played, too?”

“She taught me, John.”

“Oh.”

“When I was 6, she was 10, and Mycroft was 13, I begged for a dog for Christmas. It was all I wanted. And I got one. He was an Irish Setter, with beautiful red fur.”

“Redbeard.”

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned for a moment. “We were inseparable, I took him everywhere. But he wasn’t just mine, he was a family dog. Very loyal. Everyone loved him. Even Euros, for a while.”

John squeezes his hand, a light pressure, warm. He returns it, leans forward toward their joined hands. 

“During one of her episodes, she was angry. Redbeard got frightened by the yelling and growled at her. So she lashed out, threw something, nearly hit me. I began to cry, and Redbeard got protective, defensive. She tried to get to me and Redbeard bit her. I don’t even think it really hurt her, just made her angrier, and she kicked him away. She ran out of the house and didn’t come back for several hours. Mycroft tried to run after her, but she was faster. Of course, our parents were terrified. After that day, I don’t think it was ever the same. She avoided me constantly, with or without the dog. While I was away at school, Redbeard got sick. My father took him to the vet, but apparently he was beyond saving. I was devastated.”

“I can imagine. What was wrong with him?”

“He had consumed a large amount of rat poison, which caused internal bleeding, among other things. By the time symptoms appeared, it was likely too late to do anything.”

“Oh, god.”

“We didn’t know about the poison until later, when the vet inquired about possible exposure. In addition to her seeming unaffected by the loss, my father found the poison hidden in the back of Euros’ wardrobe. When I returned from school, Euros told me that she wouldn’t have had to hurt Redbeard if he hadn’t hurt her first. Of course, I was hysterical, and tried to hit her. She broke my arm, and gave Mycroft a broken nose when he tried to restrain her.”

“Our parents could no longer deny the danger she presented,” a voice intones from the darkened doorway, and Mycroft comes gliding in after it. “And so our sister was granted an indefinite stay in a psychiatric facility.”

John looks from Mycroft back to Sherlock. “I have a feeling there’s more?” he asks softly. Sherlock closes his eyes, turning away slightly.

Squeezing his hand again, John turns back to Mycroft.

“She was, as you can imagine, not the most well behaved patient. As she grew older, she became more violent and manipulative. She began to send letters, mostly addressed to Sherlock, which were…disturbing in nature. We believe she had either colluded with or coerced a member of the staff into sending them, because despite revoking her privilege they still came. Always with a different return address, so we didn’t know what they were until we opened them.”

“What kind of letters?”

“Angry, detailed, and quite violent, as you can expect. Many of them referred to Redbeard, as well as Euros’ desire to leave treatment and return home, at any cost.”

John inhales. “Christ.” 

“We managed to keep most of them from reaching Sherlock. Unfortunately, we learned that Euros had managed to escape under the ruse of a suicide attempt, an intentional overdose, injuring several attending staff along the way. She came home, as expected, and attempted to burn down the house.”

“When was this?”

“I was 21, away at university, Euros was nearing her 18th birthday, and Sherlock was just 14. The situation was handled, with minimal damage, and she was moved to a more secure facility. That was over 20 years ago.”

“Yeah, well, I think she might be due for another security upgrade,” John sighs.

Sherlock stiffens in his grasp, and Mycroft’s back straightens, brow furrowing. 

“Euros is no longer a danger to you, John, nor to anyone else.”

His stomach drops. “What?”

“John,” Sherlock whispers, voice trembling.

John finds his eyes, finds the raw emotion welling up at the edges, one slow line already sliding down the crease of his nose.

He goes to comfort Sherlock instinctively, no longer caring about what the contact could insinuate about their relationship and briefly forgetting his wound. He flinches, gasps with a twinge of pain across his chest, but keeps pulling Sherlock closer.

Sherlock meets him halfway, pushing John gently back to his pillows and placing his forehead against John’s shoulder. 

The hand not occupied with Sherlock’s own goes to the nape of his neck, rubbing soothing circles against the skin below his hairline. John ignores the way his chest protests. He has just enough morphine left in his system to get him through this, for sure. If not, too bad.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Sherlock’s hair. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

He is only vaguely aware of Mycroft leaving the room, most of his focus on the man mourning against him and the large hole in the middle of his chest. He lets his head drop back but keeps a gentle grip on Sherlock. That’s the last thing he remembers before he falls asleep, morphine heavy and warm in his veins.

He gets the rest later on. Euros’ near-drop off the grid until just a few years ago, when a consulting criminal surfaces, and reveals an unhealthy obsession with the youngest Holmes. Even in containment, Euros followed Sherlock’s every move, turned Moriarty into the perfect puzzle, and managed to keep her presence almost negligible. Then when Sherlock’s “suicide assignment” came down the bureaucratic chain, her final problem over two decades in the making began with two words: **“Miss me?”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like the idea that Sherlock is the baby
> 
> plus it makes it much easier for Euros to be mean to him if she's older
> 
> i made some creative choices with the timeline bc i don't know their canonical ages
> 
> don't worry, she's still crazy
> 
> redbeard is just a dog, but she's still fucked up
> 
> also Euros created Moriarty, i'm sorry, that's how it goes man


	4. The Morgue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because in my headcanon (see ch 1)
> 
> Euros is responsible for John beating up Sherlock
> 
> sorry i don't make the rules

“Please, please.” 

_Hands. On him. Pulling him back. Restraining him._

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. But I don’t think he’s a danger anymore.”

Sherlock is on the floor. Sherlock is bleeding. 

_I did that to him._  
_He was going to hurt someone._  
_He’s high, he’s relapsed,_  
_and he could’ve hurt someone._  
_Hurt himself, maybe._

John did that for him, though.

His brain is still spinning with adrenaline and rage and fear and guilt and so many other not-good things that he doesn’t have the capacity to process it all.

He hears a voice. His thoughts stop abruptly. His pulse thrums violently through his neck, into his hands. 

“No, it’s okay.” _Bah-dum._

“Let him do what he wants.” _Bah-dum bah-dum._

“He’s entitled.” _Bah-dum bah-dum bah-DUM._ “I killed his wife.”

“Yes, you did.” The words leave him without permission. They taste like Sherlock’s blood on his hands. 

When he thinks back on it later, he hates himself more in that moment than he ever has before, and what makes him so sick about it is that he doesn’t realize what’s happened until after he’s left, Sherlock shaking and bleeding on the floor of the morgue, and John flees because his body recognizes that he needs to get as far away from Sherlock as possible—for all the wrong reasons. 

He sits through his statement at the Yard with quiet unease, the adrenaline all rushed from his system in one go but his guilt still not quite caught up with him. Something’s wrong, he knows it, but he’s so tired he can’t bother to figure out what it is just then.

Later, it all comes to him at once.

_…I hurt Sherlock, oh God, what have I done,_  
_why did I do that, he was bleeding, something’s wrong,_  
_I don’t understand, I need to help him, I need to get out,_  
_I need to leave, he’ll never forgive me, I don’t deserve it,_  
_just leave before you fuck it up even more…_


	5. The Hug (cont'd)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka shit that needed to be said

He’s still against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s hand on his neck. It feels good, it feels right. Except that it doesn’t, because John shouldn’t have this. He doesn’t deserve Sherlock comforting him, not after…

“What I did to you, Sherlock, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t, and I know that.”

Sherlock tenses, then settles. “No, John, I—”

“Don’t you dare.” John fights the urge to break free of Sherlock’s grasp. He does not want to scare him. Can’t hurt him, not again. _Breathe in, breathe out._

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He waits.

“Don’t you dare tell me you deserved it, or that you forgive me, or any of it!” John feels the tremor in his hand burn. He digs his nails into his palm.

“I beat you, Sherlock! I punched you, I kicked you. I made you bleed. All because of some stupid, misplaced guilt and a nasty fucking temper.” 

He cannot look Sherlock in the eye. _Breathe, in and out. In. Out._

_Breathe in._

“Forget you going after Smith, I should have been arrested for what I did to you. And I can’t take that back. Nothing I do can ever change the fact that I put my hands on you with the intent to hurt you, really and truly hurt you. As soon as that scalpel was out of your hand, I had crossed a line I _never_ wanted to cross, not with you.” 

_Breathe out._

“ _Especially_ not with you.” He breathes in. Breathes out. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. He has to finish regardless.

“And if I didn’t already know you’re probably going to ignore me, I would highly recommend you stay as far away from me as possible for a very long time.” He deflates slowly, helium leaking out of an old balloon, wheezing and wrinkled.

“You’re right,” Sherlock says quietly. John cannot look at him. He won’t. He doesn’t have the right to. He does not want to move from this spot, wants to stay rooted there forever. 

John nods against Sherlock’s chest. “I know. I’m sorry.” He can feel the words catch in his throat.

“No, I mean you’re right about me ignoring you.”

He huffs out a laugh. Well, it’s meant to be a laugh, but it’s caught somewhere in the middle between that and a sob. It hurts. “Shut up,” he chokes.

Sherlock lets out a low chuckle. It sounds damp, wet. John wants so much to look at him, look into his eyes and see…well, he doesn’t know what he wants to see. Does he want to see light, warmth, and know Sherlock’s going to forgive him anyway? Or does he want emptiness, fear, that Sherlock will actually save himself from whatever future hurt John is sure to cause him?

“John. Please look at me.” It’s the crack in his voice when he says “please,” like he needs it more than anything, that makes John look up.

John’s other hand slips from his forehead, ending up at his side just centimeters from Sherlock’s falling from his neck.

Sherlock looks unsure; afraid, but not of John. He looks nervous. He looks at John with some emotion tucked behind all of it, something John recognizes but cannot identify.

“I don’t blame you, not for any of it. Not for Mary, not for anything. I hope you know that,” he whispers.

Sherlock nods. “The same goes for you, though. No more blame. We are clearing the slate. _Tabula rasa._ ”

“Sherlock…are you sure?”

“Never been more.” He lifts a hand to John’s shoulder. “I think your twenty minutes are over.”

And there’s a knock at the downstairs door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu did i use tabula rasa right?
> 
> i'm too lazy to double check lol


End file.
